


The Ghost of You

by elektrolizardprince



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alcohol Poisoning, Blasphemy? I guess?, Blood, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Eddie Kaspbrak Needs A Hug, Injury, M/M, Mild Religious Content, Richie Has A Meltdown, Richie Tozier Dies Too, Richie Tozier Needs a Hug, Suicidal Thoughts, unreality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:36:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24077614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elektrolizardprince/pseuds/elektrolizardprince
Summary: Eddie almost wished there was some trial by God after death. Something like a courtroom where his life was thrown into speculation and nitpicked and torn apart until there was nothing left but himself standing naked in front of a jury of everyone who had ever lived before him and they simply watched while some gorgeous guy with a halo over his head sentenced him to damnation. Something that he'd come to expect in his forty years of living through a protestant upbringing. Actually, anything would be better than what he saw.Or Eddie becomes a ghost after he dies under the Neibolt house and tries to adjust to everything that comes with it.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 7
Kudos: 56





	The Ghost of You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [miliitem](https://archiveofourown.org/users/miliitem/gifts).



> THIS STORY TALKS ABOUT SUICIDAL THOUGHTS AND IDEATION, ALCOHOLISM, ALCOHOL POISONING, AND DEATH. PLEASE DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE SENSITIVE TO THESE TOPICS AND PLEASE TAKE CARE. THANK YOU.
> 
> Inspired by Finn's (@miliitem) art piece: https://twitter.com/miliitem/status/1258536348815781889?s=21

Eddie remembered the sensation of dying. 

His eyes lazily followed Richie's form, running off to god knows where. What was he doing here again? The pain was starting to ebb, where it was once all consuming, it was now dull. Like he was getting used to it. His breath shuddered, catching in his throat. Oh, right, he should've figured this was coming. It was getting hard to breathe. He was so tired now. He blinked slowly, feeling a new track of wet tears slip down his face. His own this time, he thought. He wasn't ready to die. He just remembered his friends and his childhood  _ yesterday _ , and now he was losing it all again. He was far too tired to cry. His breath caught in his throat again, like the start of a sob, but he didn't have the energy to cough and clear it. His lungs burned with it, hot and wet and miserable. Vaguely, he thought about his inhaler. Vaguely, he thought this was a little ironic. Everything hurt. 

Dying hurt. 

He almost wished there was some religious trial by God after death. Something like a courtroom where his life was thrown into speculation and nitpicked and torn apart until there was nothing left but himself standing naked in front of a jury of everyone who had ever lived before him and they simply watched while some gorgeous guy with a halo over his head sentenced him to damnation. Something that he'd come to expect in his forty years of living through a protestant upbringing. Actually, anything would be better than what he saw. 

He couldn't pinpoint the exact moment he died in those catacombs. He just knew the pain dropped away at some point and Richie was back at his side and suddenly he could think a little clearer. He felt himself smile. Richie told him it was over, man, they could go home. Eddie wanted to answer him, wanted to take his hand and tell him that was the best thing he'd ever heard, but no words would come out. 

He couldn't feel it when Richie touched his face. 

What the fuck. 

Oh. 

Oh, no. 

What the fuck was going on?

"He's dead, Richie… he’s gone." Bev's voice. She sounded so heartbroken. Didn’t they just beat the clown? Why couldn’t he feel Richie? Why couldn’t he answer them? He couldn’t be dead! He was right there! He was watching them!

‘ _ Guys, I’m okay. _ ’ He wanted to say, he felt his mouth move around the words but he couldn’t hear his own voice. Richie looked like he was going to cry. He looked like he was staring at his own beating heart in his hands and was racing through a million useless ways to put it back into his chest and somehow stay alive. Like he knew it would never work, but he had to try anyway. 

Eddie never wanted to see that look on his face again. 

“We gotta let him go.” Bill didn’t even stutter on his words. He sounded miserable. Just like Bev did.

“SHUT UP.” Richie could barely tear his eyes away from Eddie’s face, glaring at his friends over his shoulder. Eddie couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard Richie sound so… so… had Richie ever talked like that before? His voice was so desperate. Broken. Panicked. He sounded like he was barely holding himself together. “WE GOTTA GET HIM OUT OF HERE!”

There was so much power and conviction behind Richie’s voice that the other losers faltered for a second. If Richie could believe it with that much of his essence, use so much of himself to project into the universe that Eddie would be okay… then maybe...

The room shook. Eddie couldn’t feel it.

“Rich.” Mike started, snapping back to reality. Eddie was dead. They needed to  _ go _ . “This place is- THIS PLACE IS COMING DOWN, MAN-”

“WE GOTTA GET HIM OUT OF HERE.” He shut the other man down, cutting him off with another shout. “WE CAN’T FUCKING  _ LEAVE HIM LIKE THIS. _ ” He alternated between glaring daggers at the other losers and watching Eddie’s face for any sign of life. Eddie could see the moment of realization in his eyes, he would always remember the moment Richie realized that they were right. Still, the heartbroken man soldiered on, swallowing back the lump in his throat.

“WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU, YOU WANT ME TO LEAVE HIM DOWN HERE, ARE YOU  _ NUTS?! _ ” 

Eddie could feel it now. Something was different in himself and he could  _ tell _ and he only realized it because he just watched his body move without him. He was staring down Richie’s shaking hands as they wrapped around his head, fisting in his hair and pulling his… oh, god. Pulling his own lifeless body against Richie’s chest. 

He wanted to throw up. 

Richie held onto Eddie like a lifeline, and hell, maybe what was left of him was. Sobs wracked his body and he gulped for air against Eddie’s dirty jacket, eyes squeezed shut. Richie shuffled, as if somehow he could pull himself closer, as if he didn’t have Eddie’s limp weight hanging off his shoulders already. 

Eddie couldn’t look away.

“It’s okay…” Bev started again. Everyone knew she didn’t believe it. She was lying through her teeth.

Richie’s brow furrowed and he hid his face against the fabric of Eddie’s clothes, his voice muffled. “No.”

He would never be able to forget Richie’s screams when Mike and Ben grabbed him. The litany of ‘ _ No _ ’s and  _ ‘We can still help him _ ’s falling from his lips like a miserable, forgotten plea to the uncaring void of the universe would forever carve themselves into Eddie’s very essence. His body fell sideways when they finally detached Richie’s arms from around his shoulders, but Eddie couldn’t bring himself to care. He was enraptured by the sight of Richie desperately kicking his feet to get some ground under him again, the desperation on his face, the pain, the misery… his struggle tore Eddie’s heart to shreds and he couldn’t look away. 

Was this hell? Did he simply forget the holy courtroom or whatever the fuck happened and now he was sentenced to watch his friends, the forgotten love of his life, mourn over his death for the rest of eternity? 

This certainly felt like his version of eternal damnation. 

…

Eddie couldn't remember his own funeral. 

He didn't know if he went, shadowing someone who loved him and watching them cry over an empty casket buried under six feet of dirt with a silvery tombstone over what should've been his head. He couldn't put anything together. His concept of time was blurring and there was nothing he could do to ground himself. There was no one he could talk to. He'd never felt so alone. 

Instead, he remembered standing on the bridge with Richie. Before Richie left Derry. Left him behind. Richie kneeled on that bridge with his pocket knife, using the blade to deepen 30-year-old marks in the partially rotted wood.

"I always wanted to show you this." He muttered, eyes damp. He'd talked to Eddie a lot since the neibolt house. "I just… I was thirteen, y'know? Madly in love, didn't know how to show it. Couldn't." He ran his finger over the E. "God, do you know how many times I had to stop myself from kissing you when we were growing up?"

Richie gave a mirthless laugh and sat back on his heels. "I can't tell you how badly I wanted to grab you at the Jade. It was like, instant. You looked at me and I remembered everything I had ever felt and wanted to say or do or… it felt like a sucker punch, honestly. All I could think about was telling you something, anything,  _ everything _ , and kissing you until my lungs gave up without air. Ha. I guess it’s too little too late, huh, Eds?"

They sat there in silence for a moment, Richie finally letting the tears fall and Eddie… he was just there. There was nothing he could do. Nothing he could say. 

Not that it would matter if he could find the words.

Richie got up and climbed back in his car. Eddie followed. 

He didn't know how to explain it. The further Richie drove, tearing down empty stretches of highway at breakneck speeds, the more Eddie could feel himself slipping away. Through the passenger seat. Into the back. The trunk. Holding desperately onto the spoiler, but the wind was too much. He slipped. He felt himself tumble but all he could see were the taillights of Richie's mustang. He didn't even slow down.

Is this what being forgotten felt like? 

Eddie took a deep breath. Rather, he went through the motions. He didn't have lungs for air to enter, but the feeling of it, the motion that he was previously so accustomed to, was refreshing. Cathartic, almost. He landed on his back on the burning asphalt and he stared up at the cloudless sky. He couldn't feel the cracks and pebbles digging into his back. He couldn't feel the heat that was rising in waves all around him. He couldn't feel anything. He felt the pervasive void of nothingness, and that was all.

It had taken hours for him to go flying out of that car, a miserable endeavor of being left behind in slow motion that left him feeling more empty than he ever had since his death. He wanted to cry. He wanted his body back. He wanted to see Richie again. He wanted to hug him. He wanted to tell his friends he was okay. He wanted to spend just one more day with them. He wanted to go home. He wanted…

There were no tears to come. That was the thing about being dead, he thought. His body's natural responses to emotions he still had were just remnants of a bygone era that he could never get back again. He couldn't vent the pressure building up inside of him, tearing apart the core of his consciousness with claws made of molten lava, and he could feel every scratch and scrape and dig but there was nothing he could do. No release. No pressure valve. No way to stop the agony except to wait it out. Nothing. 

Eddie found himself staring into the sun, unable to stop himself from trying to pull air into nonexistent lungs. If he were alive, he'd be screaming with panic. He'd be crying and flailing and trying so hard to just  _ breathe _ , but he wasn't. All he could do was lie there motionless aside from his mouth gaping open and slamming shut again and again as if he could reinvent his lungs if he  _ just had enough air _ . 

He really was in hell, he decided. He had to be.

…

Richie couldn't understand why he felt like his world crumbled and fell apart on that empty highway. Something was there, the glue holding him together and keeping him from ending it all out of pure misery, and then it wasn't. It disappeared, and he couldn't explain it, but it took his heart with him. 

He took a slow, shaky breath and tried to keep his eyes on the road.

It felt like something was digging its way through his chest. His heart hurt and tears threatened to overtake him. 

Something flashed in his mind's eye.

Blood.

Laughter.

" _ R-richie?! _ "

Eddie.

Dead.

Gone. 

His blood ran cold and his breath caught, choking him. He watched Eddie's death in his head like a loop. An endless, painful loop. And every time, he felt the blood on his face. Tasted it in his mouth. Felt the "I love you" die on his lips as both their eyes slowly looked down, down, down to that damned bloody claw protruding through his midsection. 

Richie slammed on the brakes.

The tires squealed loudly in his ears and he felt his body move on its own. He came so close to hitting the steering wheel but he didn't care. He couldn't see anything beyond the tears clouding his vision. He almost wished he'd hit the wheel as hard as he could. He heard about it on the news all the time, someone dying from the impact. Without an airbag. 

What a way to go.

Maybe that way he could see Eddie again. 

Slowly, he let his body move the rest of the way, his forehead gently coming to rest on the top of the wheel, between his white knuckled fists. He took another slow breath. 

"... Eds." His voice cracked and he squeezed his eyes shut, a few tears dropping onto the lenses of his glasses. 

"Eds. I need you so fucking bad. I can't do this."

There was no one there, and he knew that. He was so utterly alone. 

…

That night found Richie Tozier in some seedy bar in the middle of bum fuck nowhere. He was racking up a heavy tab, and he knew the bartenders were considering cutting him off. He started crying after about three glasses of straight vodka. That was about an hour ago, but it wasn't like he was just knocking them back. 

Every time he closed his eyes he saw the look Eddie gave him when he promised he wasn't going anywhere. Or his smile when Richie woke up from the deadlights. Or the nervous grin when Richie told him how brave he was. Or Eddie's glassy, vacant stare, with the blood drooling down his chin. 

Fuck. 

He didn't mean to slam his fist down against the bar. He didn't quite register that he even did it until the bartender shoved his shoulder, yelling at him, asking if he was okay. 

Was he okay? Ha.

Richie honestly believed he'd never be okay again. 

He just broke a glass between his first and the countertop, how'd that sound for okay?

God, his hand hurt. The bartender had wrapped it up in a towel that was quickly turning red, the largest shards of glass pulled out and set aside. He vaguely heard something about stitches. He vaguely realized all eyes were on him. He took a slow breath. 

He tried to crack a joke, something about being clumsy and having one too many, but the words didn't come. A low, croaky noise left his throat instead and he snapped his jaw shut. 

Somehow, Richie convinced them to forego the ambulance. At least, he was pretty sure he must have, because he was sitting alone on the bathroom counter in his hotel room, watching the blood pool in the bottom of the sink. His hand wasn't bleeding as bad anymore, but it sped up in short bursts as his clumsy, drunken fingers dug out the glass. It… it messed with his head to leave it there. It didn't hurt, not really, but it made him sick to his stomach to see it.

His eyes kept drawing back to the red dripping onto the porcelain. He couldn't shake this sense of morbid fascination. Like maybe he deserved to bleed. To suffer. He did. Not Eddie. Eddie should be home right now. He, Richie, should be the one dead under the Neibolt. 

What did Eddie do?

Why did Eddie deserve that?

Why didn't Pennywise take him instead?

Richie shook his head and slammed the faucet on, watching the blood wash away the glass for a moment. It felt unreal. It felt undeserving. Watching his misery and suffering be wiped away like that. He deserved more of it, not less.

He stuck his hand under the water. 

It stung and he sucked in a breath through his teeth. He pulled his hand away and threw another towel over it, jumping off the counter with an uncoordinated stumble into the door.

Fuck. 

Fuck. 

Fuck.

_ Fuck _ . 

He found the minibar, naturally, and moved bottles unceremoniously to his bed. He couldn't stop thinking about the blood and the pain he wasn't feeling and Eddie and everything he thought he deserved, and if he couldn't shut those demons up, he was going to drown them.

Fuck. This. 

…

He had a dream. He didn't even remember falling asleep. 

He was sitting in the lounge of the townhouse back in Derry, staring at his hands. One of them was still bloody and cut and torn to shreds, but he didn't care. He just kept staring at them. 

Richie didn't notice that anyone was around, so he jumped when someone cleared their throat. 

He wasn't sure what to expect when he looked up, but it sure as shit wasn't _ him.  _ Eddie. Eddie stood in front of him with his arms crossed and that stupid worried look on his face he always had when Richie got himself hurt as a kid. 

Eddie looked surreal. He didn't have a scratch on him. He… was he wearing a suit? Richie didn't think he'd ever seen him in one, but holy shit he was breathtaking.

"... E-Eddie." God, he sounded wrecked. Even in his dreams Richie couldn't keep himself together. 

"What happened to you?" Eddie's voice was all care and concern as he kneeled in front of Richie, gently taking his bloody hand. He clicked his tongue. "You need to be more careful, Rich, jeez."

Richie could've swore his heart stopped. "I…"

A million thoughts surfaced at once and Richie choked on his own breath, stuttering into a coughing fit. He couldn't believe this. 

"Hey," Eddie soothed. "Richie, hey." Gentle fingers cupped the sides of his face and he felt himself start to relax. "Look at me."

He would do anything Eddie asked of him. Of course. 

"Breathe with me." He moved Richie's uninjured hand to his chest, and sure enough, Richie could feel Eddie's strong heartbeat through his shirt. 

A sob tore through him and he couldn't hold back the tears if he tried. He had Eddie. Warm. Breathing. Eddie. His Eddie. Alive. He pitched forward until his head touched Eddie's shoulder and he choked out another cry.

He felt Eddie's arms move around him, a hand planting itself in his hair. 

He wanted to throw up. 

Eddie held him until the tears stopped, but Richie had no idea how long that took. He didn't care. He had Eddie. 

Eddie. 

Eddie. 

Eddie.

Eddie?

Slowly, he sat back, but it almost felt for a moment like Eddie didn't want to let him go. "I… I'm sorry." He mumbled. 

"Don't be, Richie, it's okay."

"I thought… you died. I thought I…" He planted his hand on Eddie's chest again, desperate for that heartbeat thrumming away under his fingers. "Eddie… can I tell you something?"

He had confidence he never imagined. He had Eddie back. He was going to tell him everything. 

"Eddie. I love you. I always have and I always will."

There was a beat of silence and Richie's gaze moved from his hand to Eddie's face. The nerves started to get to him for a moment. 

"I love you too, Richie. I miss you."

_ I miss you. _

Richie woke up screaming for Eddie. 

He had never moved so fast in his life. He climbed out of bed, ignoring the bottles he sent clattering to the floor as he grabbed his phone and his keys. He didn't bring much in with him when he got here, and if he forgot something, well, he could always replace it. Who gives a damn?

Not Richie.

He didn't bother dropping his room key off, instead leaving it on the counter in the bathroom. He climbed in his car and never looked back.

Richie didn't stop, either. He couldn't. If his mind wandered, if he slept, if he stopped to stretch, he might think of Eddie again. And if he thought of Eddie he couldn't guarantee that he wouldn't do something drastic. 

The cuts on his hand burned against the steering wheel. 

…

Eddie didn't understand much about his existence after death. He couldn't feel anything. No one could see him. But occasionally he could move things in the real world. And if he tried hard enough, he could whisper. Oh, and for some fucked up reason, he wasn't in control of where he was. Ever. 

After the highway, he woke up in his house in New York. Well, woke up wasn't the right phrase. He blinked, and suddenly he was there. He found Myra in their bedroom, though Eddie couldn't see himself actually calling it a bedroom. He didn't sleep there. He didn't like to. Maybe for the first few years of his marriage, when he still felt like he was doing things right, but towards the end he was starting to feel… detached. He started sleeping in the guest room. Myra never once let him entertain the idea of a divorce. 

He watched his wife cry, but as usual, he didn't feel anything. He hadn't truly felt anything since his body was crushed under the old Neibolt house, he thought. 

Myra clutched one of his pillows to her chest, staring blankly at the foot of the bed before her. Eddie could hear her mumbling. 

"Eddie… Eddie please come home. Please tell me I dreamt it…"

Oh. 

He tried to sigh, he didn't think he would ever move past that habit. 

Slowly, he moved to the side of the bed. He didn't hate Myra, no, they were friends, but Eddie just couldn't bring himself to keep feigning attraction to her anymore. That was why things changed between them. He reached out to touch her, hand settling on his arm as he sat in front of her. 

She didn't react. Just like everyone else. 

' _ Myra… _ ' He tried. ' _ I'm sorry. _ '

What was he sorry for? He was the one that died. He was the one that suffered. He couldn't think of anything else. Goddamnit.

...

Richie didn't remember making it into Los Angeles. He barely remembered getting in his own front door. The darkness that greeted him there was suffocating, and he swore he could see something in the shadows. Watching him. Eddie. 

Fuck. 

Richie moved through the dark house with practiced ease, only bothering with a light once he made it to the kitchen. He couldn't do this. He had a full fucking bar for his friends and for networking and fuck if he wasn't going to put it to good use. 

Maybe if he was drunk enough he could…

He grabbed the first bottle he saw, a bottle of Jack Daniel's, twisting off the cap and bringing it to his lips.

It burned like hell going down, settling deep in his stomach. Good start. 

He sighed through his nose, eyes scanning the open floored house before him. Part of him had wanted to bring Eddie here as soon as he saw him again. Part of him wanted to burn it down now for ever thinking that. For ever thinking he could have Eddie for any length of time. 

He took another drink.

"Eds." He sighed. He hadn't talked to him in a while. He missed him. 

"Eddie Kaspbrak, you son of a bitch, there's…" Another, longer drink. "There's something I wanted to tell you. Fucking bitch. God dammit. Fuck." 

He'd never said it out loud before. He wasn't sure he could. 

Richie pinched the bridge of his nose. "Okay, fuck, whatever. There's no point now, is there? You're gone. And as much as I wish you weren't, you are." 

Nope. He hadn't said that aloud either. 

His stomach rolled and he moved to the sink, setting the bottle beside it. 

"Fuck me."

He threw up. 

Then rinsed his mouth out with more Jack. 

"I wish you were here. Please, god, just come here."

… 

Eddie was surprised to find himself… somewhere that was very obviously not his old house in New York. He'd never been here before, he thought, standing in front of a nice looking house. It was identical to the ones around it, but something told him to go into this one specifically. 

So Eddie did. 

Something changed in the air around him, Richie decided, but he didn't know what and he didn't care to analyze it and find out. He was far more than halfway through the bottle of Jack by now and he'd been taking shots of just about everything else in the liquor cabinet. 

He felt lightheaded and warm, and just distracted enough to suitably quiet those nagging demons in the back of his mind. For now. He hadn't thought about Eddie since he threw up.

Eddie. 

He shook his head and filled his glass again. 

Oh, god.

Eddie felt his heart break again. Watching Richie… it hurt more than dying, he thought. The man sat at his table, a couple glasses loosely lined up in front of him. An almost empty bottle in his hands. More pushed back. He couldn't stand to watch, but again, he couldn't look away. 

Richie was killing himself.

And there was nothing Eddie could do. 

"Eds…" Richie sighed. "Fuck. I'm sorry." He knocked back his glass and immediately refilled it. 

"I can't do this, man." He wasn't sure why he felt the need to start talking again. "You're dead and… I know. I didn' even fuckin' know you existed." He sniffled. "'Til we got back home. Fuck home. Fuck Derry. Fuck. I miss you so fuckin' much."

Eddie frowned, stepping further into the house and stopping beside one of the empty chairs at the table. 

"I wish y'were here." Richie mumbled. "Sittin' here, tellin' me I'm too fuckin' drunk an' I needa go t'bed."

' _ You are. You do. I'm worried about you, Richie. _ ' Eddie told him, sitting in the open chair.

The man paused for a moment, almost as if he were processing what Eddie had said. But there was no way he heard him. No one knew Eddie was there. This was his hell. He was doomed to nothingness, both in his emotions and his interactions. He was to become part of the void. Wandering the world. Watching everything and nothing at once.

Richie sniffled again and took another drink from his glass, not quite finishing it. "M'fuckin' head hurts."

He leaned over the table, eyes heavy as he stared at his bottle. He stuck his free hand under his chin. "'M so tired of this shit." 

Eddie had a sinking feeling. 

Oh, please, no. 

No. 

How much had Richie had?

Eddie reached out desperately as Richie turned his head, letting his face hide in the crook of his elbow. Of course, his hands didn't do anything to help. 

Richie was curling up to die. Eddie could feel it coming.

Eddie's mother used to scare him shitless as a kid, telling him stories about alcohol poisoning. A friend of a friend's son had a drink at a party once, threw up everywhere, passed out, and never woke up again, she'd tell him, his insides were boiled up when the coroner got to him. Honestly, he didn't drink until he was in his thirties because of that story. It scared him half to death to think that just one drink could do that, even if he found it to be a lie. Still, he'd heard real stories of alcohol poisoning, where instead of one drink it's a whole bottle in a couple hours. And it's not always a violent, disturbing end. 

He had no idea how long Richie was there, was the point. 

He had no way of telling if he'd just opened that bottle tonight, and there was nothing he could do to help if he had. 

Richie started to snore, breaths few and far between. 

Eddie tried in vain to shake his shoulders, but he had never been able to so much as feel a living person yet. It'd be too much of a miracle to start now. 

He remembered Richie's last breath. 

He had been watching the man's sleeping form for a while, feeling helpless and empty and oh so useless. Richie breathed out. Eddie counted the seconds before he breathed in again. The longest so far had been twelve seconds, and he'd snorted on his inhale after that. Ten seconds passed.

Eleven.

Twelve.

Thirteen.

Fourteen.

Richie's fingers went slack against the glass he'd been clinging to in his sleep. Eddie's heart dropped.

"... Richie?"

No. Please, no.

"Richie. Please." 

He didn't deserve this.

"Please wake up."

Eddie didn't realize that he'd started crying. He didn't know that he could, and it wasn't for a lack of trying. He had many opportunities to cry since he died, but he never actually could. He could make the motions, emulating how his body would've moved, but nothing more. 

He stared at Richie's body, slumped over a table, and felt tears in his eyes. He had wanted so much for his friend. He had his own life, outside of Derry and the childhoods they'd all forgotten. 

Eddie never meant to cause Richie's death. 

"I'm so fucking sorry, Richie."

...

The first thing Richie heard was his own name. And then crying. And apologies. He didn't… he didn't understand. That was Eddie's voice. Where was he? How was Eddie… Eddie was dead. He watched Eddie die. 

Was this some kind of sick joke?

Slowly, he turned his head to look over his arm. It didn't occur to him that he wasn't actually moving.

He saw Eddie sitting beside him. 

Richie's eyes widened and he shot to his feet. Nothing else mattered but the man in front of him. 

"Eddie? How are you-" Oh. Oh no. Why was he crying? Did something happen? Were these last few weeks just a really fucking bad nightmare? "Eddie. Eds." He snapped his fingers to get Eddie's attention, not missing the way his eyes widened in surprise. "Why are you crying? Jesus, Eds, don't cry, please. I haven't seen you in… fuck me, man, what's going on?"

Eddie blinked, eyebrows knit in concern. "Richie…" He paused, sniffling a little.

How the fuck was he supposed to say this?

"You're dead."

Now it was Richie's turn to blink uselessly at him. "What the fuck kind of joke is that?"

"No- I- fuck. Richie. Turn around. You're fucking  _ dead. _ Like me."

"Like y-" He glanced back at the table and had to do a double take. What the fuck. What. The. Fuck. He was standing right there but… "Eddie." He felt numb. Scared. Confused. "Please tell me I'm making shit up and that you're not really here and this is just a weird dream."

"... You're not. I've… you're not."

"You're real?"

"What the fuck did I jus-"

"Last I checked," Richie looked back at him with an unreadable expression. This was… what the fuck. "You died in the Neibolt. Excuse me if it's fucking  _ weird _ seeing you again."

"... oh."

He almost wanted to laugh. Almost. This was the most fucked situation he could've come up with. He needed to think about anything else. "I missed you, Eds."

"What?"

"I said I  _ missed you _ , what, did you not hear me? C'mon, Eddie."

"I haven't been able to talk to anyone since I died, cut me some slack."

"Fuck, stop saying that. Stop saying you died. We're here. That's all that matters to me right now."

"Richie…"

He sighed. "Just tell me something. Have you… you're not going anywhere, right?"

"What? Fuck no-"

Eddie yelped when Richie tackled him in a bear hug, knocking them both to the floor. The feeling of it brought tears to his eyes. He'd been invisible for so long, but to have someone touch him, to  _ feel it _ , it was earth shattering. He didn't even notice at first that Richie was crying, too. He was too absorbed in not being lonely anymore. 

"Eddie." Richie mumbled against his shoulder. "I missed you so fucking much." 

"You have no idea how much I missed you. No idea."

He paused for a moment, leaning back just to unmuffle his words. Part of him braced for a bad reaction, tensing in Eddie's arms. "... Can I tell you something?" He didn't wait for an answer, he didn't know if he could still say what he needed to say if he waited. "I wish I'd said this years ago, Eds. I was always too scared to, but… I need you to know how I've felt-"

"I love you too, Richie."

"I-" He paused, sitting up while he processed Eddie's words. "Wait,  _ what _ ? How the fuck did you know what I was gonna say?"

"I was on the bridge with you, dumbass. I could see and hear you this whole time, you just… couldn't hear me."

"... Oh." He scrubbed the back of his neck. "How much did you uh… see of me?"

"What the fuck are you asking me, Richie?"

"Just- shit, dude, I cried a lot. I was a mess after I left Maine."

Eddie finally pushed himself to sit up, crossing his legs. "I think I lost track of you right after you left. I don't know how to explain it, I just… stopped moving and you kept going." 

"... wow. How did you end up here?"

He shrugged. "All I know is you kept saying my name when I got here."

"Sorry... I made you see all that, didn't I?"

"... I felt so guilty."

"What? Why the fuck would you feel guilty?"

"You ended up… if I hadn't died, then we…"

"How was getting killed your fault?!"

Eddie didn't know how to answer that.

"Let's just agree to not talk about dying and being dead, please."

"Yeah," Eddie reached over without thinking, taking Richie's hand. Partly to comfort him, partly to remind himself that this was real. "I'm alright with that."

Richie looked down at their hands. Eddie knew. He knew and he was okay with it. Fuck, he liked him  _ too.  _ "... holy shit." He murmured. 

"What? Oh, I… sorry." He moved to pull away but Richie just squeezed his hand.

"No, that's… not a sorry thing." Richie finally looked up at Eddie again, and it didn't matter if his eyes were a little misty. He was happy, damnit. "I've just thought about this for years. Y'know, you. This. I never… fuck." He sniffed. "I wasn't expecting it."

"I wasn't expecting it either, Rich. I mean, any of this. I thought you were  _ straight. _ "

Richie snorted.

"Shut up. I didn’t notice when we were kids and then we  _ forgot. _ ”

“I don’t know how you didn’t notice. I looked at you like the sun shined out of your ass, Eds.”

“Do you ever shut up? I’m trying to be  _ sincere. _ ”

“Maybe I could be persuaded.”

“Fine.” Eddie frowned and grabbed the front of Richie’s shirt, yanking him down and crashing their lips together.

He was just trying to shut him up, honestly. He didn’t expect to be so utterly floored by a  _ kiss. _ It felt electric, and maybe that was just the part of him that so craved to be touched for weeks talking, but his body sang when Richie’s hands braced against his knees. He felt like he might just melt when Richie came to his senses and  _ kissed him back _ . If he wasn’t so preoccupied, he might’ve teared up again because Richie felt so real. Richie was the first person to touch him since he died, Richie could see and hear him, Richie could… He  _ really _ missed this. Touching someone. Feeling someone’s hands on him. Seeing and being seen and acknowledged and it was almost too much at once.

“Oh, my god.” Eddie mumbled against his mouth. He edged back just to get a hold of himself. “I… fuck, Rich. You have no idea how incredible this feels right now.”

Richie couldn’t help but laugh. “From a kiss? Damn, Eds, we can always do more than just kiss. I could rock your world.”

Eddie rolled his eyes and smacked his palm on Richie’s chest, the heartfelt moment suddenly over. “Shut up. We have  _ forever _ to get around to that.”

Richie just smiled and kissed him again.


End file.
